


Control

by CongressIsAliens



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Character Study, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Star Wars HRT, Trans Male Character, Vignette, What-If, Written in about three hours, so it might have some weird errors, that is unsurprisingly not a tag, tw needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CongressIsAliens/pseuds/CongressIsAliens
Summary: A what-if I thought of while rewatching the original trilogy.A slice of the life of a trans Imperial navigator.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Control

There were perks to being the head navigator of a Star Destroyer. 

The slightly larger room, with your own private (albeit tiny) bathroom. The black -not gray- uniform with the larger insignia. Your own headset. The slightly better pay and benefits. 

The control. 

Trevin Kator reaches up to his headset. "Navigation Two, Deck, this is Navigation One signing out to standby. Do you copy?"

The response crackles right back into his ear. "Copy that, Navigation One. See you in the morning."

Trevin laughs to himself. It's 0030, already morning. He'll be back at 1030, on the dot, just like every day. 

He turns and exits through the door in the navigation pit. His boots make a satisfying thump in the empty halls. Every day crew member is asleep, every night crew member is at their station. 

He only briefly stops at the small cafeteria to pick up dinner. A neatly labeled container- Trevin Kator, Navigation- containing a nutritional slurry, just like always. Specially engineered to provide the exact amount of nutrients needed for an Imperial Navy man. Trevin picks it up and continues on. 

His room is at the end of the hall. A quick scan of his thumb, and his door opens with a whoosh. 

Trevin's quarters are small. A bed inset into the wall, with drawers underneath. A small chair and table. A door leading to a tiny bathroom containing only the necessary toilet, sink, and shower.

Trevin sets the nutritional drink down, then sits heavily in the chair. It's a Centaxday, which means the fatigue is at it's worst. 

Slowly, he removes most of his headset- everything but the earpiece. If there's an emergency, he needs to be awoken. 

His boots are next- knee high, polished to a shine, and really uncomfortable. Set right next to the door, easy to polish in the morning. 

His blaster and belt go on the table, as does his hat. The rank insignia goes in a little alcove above his pillow, after it gets polished. He gets up, downing the last of his nutrient drink and putting the container in a refuse collection bin, and pulls his sleep clothes plus a small box out of a drawer under his bed. 

The sleep clothes are nothing special-pants, shirt, clean underpants, but the box is something unique. Something he desperately needs, but if it were found out, it would be the end of him. 

He enters the cramped bathroom, then shuts and locks the door behind him. 

He sets the box and fresh clothes down, then turns out the lights and strips. 

Pants, shirt, underpants, and a special tank top that compresses what shouldn't have been there in the first place. 

The shower is utilitarian and cold, the soap slimy and pungent. However, it is scores above the brief bathroom wipe downs of his Academy days, far above hiding the body he was born as. 

He still has to hide what lies under the stiff uniform. But now he can do it better, not sacrificing his hygiene for it. He's better in control now.

Once he's dressed, he opens the box up. Two needles left, in plastic packaging. Two wipes, to clean the area before the injection. A few adhesive bandages. A small bottle of liquid medication, a larger bottle of pills. 

One thing the Imperial food engineers never thought of- not every man is entirely so. Supplements in these boxes keep up Trevin's health. 

Tomorrow, before work, he's meeting the smuggler for another box. 

The smuggler isn't really a smuggler. Everyone turns a blind eye to him until they invariably need something. He visits every two months, and he takes requests. 

Trevin doesn't know what he'd do without the man in the mask. 

He opens one of the wipes, pulls down his pants somewhat, and swipes it over his inner thigh. He listens carefully for footsteps in the hall, then opens one of the needles. 

Carefully, slowly, he draws the exact dose from the bottle, then presses the needle into his leg. 

Slowly, carefully, he presses every drop of medication into his body, then pulls the needle out. Under the sink, there is a small box containing dead needles, and this latest needle joins them. 

A plain bandage covers the injection site, then he pulls his pants back up. He takes one of the pills out of the jar, swallowing it dry. 

Each time he does an injection, every Centaxday, he feels a little bit more in control. 

He picks up his clothes, puts everything neatly away, then shuts out the lights and curls up into his bunk to sleep. 

* * *

Trevin Kator wakes up at exactly 0930. He reaches down into the drawer below the bed and pulls out the binding tank top. It's the first thing he puts on in the morning, the last thing he takes off at night. 

Trevin reaches into the drawer and pulls out his packer. Made of a pair of socks, it looks close enough in his pants that he can get away with it just being socks. 

His uniform is folded perfectly, and slips on with ease. Looking in the small square of mirror above the table, he pins the just-polished insignia on the sharp black tunic. Perfectly in place. Perfectly in control. 

He spends about twenty minutes polishing his boots to an even shinier shine before putting them on. 

He leaves his room at 1000, exact. 

The smuggler is in his usual place. His ship is loaded up with all sorts of things, ranging from exotic foods to clothing to the medication Trevin (and a few others, by the similar look of the boxes) takes.

"Ah, Trevin! My favorite customer," the smuggler calls out as Trevin approaches. 

"Hello, Argan."

"Say, stick around a moment. I'm ferrying something special today for ya," Argan says, handing a box to Trevin.

Trevin shrugs. "Okay," he says, reaching into his pockets for the credits to pay the smuggler. 

Argan goes inside his transport ship, then exits a few minutes later. "Kept it in the cockpit," he says, handing Trevin two sheets of paper, "'cause it's extra special."

Trevin can't help but tear up as he reads the first page. Finally, _finally_ , he's been approved for one of the surgeries that will change his life. 

"Second page's the note for your leave. Just says it's removing something from your chest that shouldn't have been there."

Trevin pulls Argan into a tight hug. "Thank you so much," he whispers to Argan. 

"No problem." 

As Trevin walks into the navigation pit at exactly 1030, box under bed and paperwork in hand, he allows himself a small smile. This is another step to finally being in control. 

* * *

_Trevin Kator gets his top surgery within two months, then after another year, gets relocated to the Death Star navigation team, where he becomes the first navigator there. Unfortunately, when the Death Star blows up, he does not evacuate in time and dies._

**Author's Note:**

> fellow dysphoric peeps turning the lights out while you shower (as long as you don't slip and die) is a legitimate thing that can help
> 
> (comment moderation on because people are awful [so as long as your comment isn't transphobic it's going up])


End file.
